Lonely House
A house not a home
Made of stone, made of stone
Is all filled but alone
On my street
And inside dwells a boy
Filled with grief not with joy
With a flame in my eyes
Feel the heat
Gripping so slowly at something
The walls of my mind caving in
Questioning death and its meaning
Observing the sadness within
Dealing with people’s abuses
Causing me spiritual pain
Who and what to believe in
But still not yet insane
The dreams are all dead
In my head, In my head
Like the house I’m alone
On my street